The Reality In The Hoax
by Hermytwin027
Summary: "You order in Thai for two, drink the beer you always shared, and sprawl comatose on his sofa..." From 'Wannabe In The Weeds' to 'The Pain In The Heart' and thereon after, TRitH deals with the inner turmoil of the B/B 'friendship-and-maybe-something-more'
1. Chapter 1

**The Reality In The Hoax**

**A/N:- This is my 1****st**** Bones fanfiction. I got into the show recently and was amazed that I'd never watched it before. Consequently, I've spent the last chunk of my summer watching all 4 seasons, and trying to convince those surrounding me of how bloody amazing the show really is! **

**Anyways, this fic started out as a line for a song… which turned into a Bones drabble (somehow!)… which couldn't stop writing itself, and became the moderate-length one-shot we have here. It's based on Brennan's state of mind, post-'Wannabe in the Weeds', and pre-'The Pain in the Heart', so excuse me for all the angst – it was somewhat required.**

**Disclaimer:- I don't own Bones. I don't own Booth or Brennan, or any of the other fabulously realistic characters that Hart Hanson has created. I wish I did - I'd write myself into an episode! But, you know, I don't… so that aint gonna happen. Ah well, a girl can dream! :)**

You get your heart involved and it inevitably ends the same.

Despite the stubborn admissions spoken fervently in strangled tones.

You grasp illusions… and your hand falls – feels thin air.

A hoax, leaving nothing.

Erases your last place to hide.

Further time shall tell. That's the way they speak.

"We know what we're talking about, sweetie."

"It's okay to cry."

But somehow, they forget to mention numbness, loss of rationality, a sudden craving for Thai food.

Nor the detached sense of gratification that runs through your mind, each time you are forced to remember pulling that trigger.

You know that he always felt like an appalling human being – something that multiplied with every life he took. But there's a definite feeling of satisfaction pumping through your veins; fuelled by the admission that the woman got what she deserved.

And through your sudden bout of self-deprivation, you can't help but wonder if you're not a terrible person. Perhaps exactly the same as your Father. Except, from this point of view, 'exactly the same', doesn't sound all that bad.

He rang you, your Father did – right after the deaths were publicised across numerous news channels. Too many channels to count. It made you glad once again, that you have no television in your flat. No need for strangers to keep on shoving the knowledge down your throat.

You may be wrong, but surely they don't have the right!

Anyway, when you spoke, he was concerned – just like you'd expect. You told him you shot the woman. You told him you killed her. You told him you were fine, but that somehow you understood.

He knew better; he knew you were far from fine, and perhaps if you'd been in the same room, rather than miles and miles away, then you may have admitted a little more.

But he also knew better than to push you.

When you'd hung up you knew precisely what you were doing – bottling your emotions, locking your heart back away again in that impenetrable safety-deposit box, because unwittingly, you've made the same mistake over.

And just as you could've predicted, during all the years prior to meeting him, reality has returned to slap you in the face; mock you for thinking you could have any different; unceremoniously crushing you into infinitesimal pieces, and sweeping you swiftly back to where you belong.

Metaphorically, of course. But that still doesn't stop it form being true.

A stint in the comfortable bolster of trusting someone so implicitly; of allowing yourself to lean and be leant on; of deluding yourself into thinking that maybe, just maybe, we aren't all alone after all.

You can't help going to his apartment, taking the spare key out from underneath the fake rock beside his front door, and letting yourself in with shaking hands. All the whilst, marvelling at the sheer stupidity of a former military sniper – turned FBI Agent, whom still retained enough humility and trust in the human race to be able to leave a key out where any bastard could find it.

The place feels empty without him. You'd followed him in each time you'd been there previously, and now the echo of his teasing haunts you: a pitiful surrogate.

A lump forms in your throat at the sight of his familiar scrawl on the scrap of paper by the phone, reading something or other about an ice-hockey game that he was expected to take part in.

Despite the knowledge that you'd set it in motion only seconds before, you jump at the soft click of his front door, as it falls into place.

You've never been to any of his games.

Fleetingly, you get the notion that maybe you should root around for a number to call his ex on. You want to see his son; to see him smile in the same disarmingly cheeky way that he's inherited from his Father. It's selfish though. Terribly selfish of you. Would the little boy understand what had gone on?

How does one even explain to a five year old that his Daddy is dead?

You back away from the phone then, terror clutching at your chest, because you know that you are the catalyst. You are the reason that that adorable, selfless, loving child no longer has a Father.

You order in Thai for two, drink the beer you always shared, and sprawl comatose on his sofa, staring unseeingly at some generic reality television programme: Some crap excuse for entertainment. Something cobbled together as a fake representation of the real American culture. In terms of Anthropology: Absolute bullshit.

Somehow, and for the first time, you don't care. Not about the natural order of things, nor how the culture you are ensconced in expects you to behave. Definitely not about the sense of propriety that you've always fought to hold in place.

You leave the television flickering away mutely in the corner and find yourself crawling into the king-size in his room.

You're not even sure why.

Just know that you need it; need to feel close to him; need to fool yourself into thinking that he's still there.

You ignore the niggling rationale that if he _were_ still there, then there was no way in hell you'd be lying in the foetal position in the middle of the man's bed, clutching his pyjama bottoms to your chest, and crying yourself to sleep.

Needless to say, your dreams aren't exactly peaceful, and each time you awake, you feel the pain afresh.

It resides as an instinct, you've come to realise - that split second when you wake up and remember the dream, and tell yourself that it isn't real. But then you realise where you are, and why you are there, and the sobs start again.

By the time the sun streams in beneath his blinds, you are laying there staring uselessly up at the ceiling.

You feel that by bathing the room in its fresh morning rays, the world is taunting you maliciously in the knowledge that life has to go on.

Rationally, you have to get up, leave his flat, and go to work.

You are all cried out; no tears left even if you want to.

You are no use to him now.

He took the bullet for you, and you have to get back to doing what you are supposed to do.

You have to get back to your purpose in life.

Have to make use of every single moment you've been given.

Have to live on borrowed time.

You take the pyjama bottoms with you.

**A/N:- Okay, so for a 1****st**** (and impromptu) attempt at writing a Bones fic, what's the verdict? Let me know either way, pretty please :)**

**Also, what do you make of my writing style in this? It's following the disjointed thought pattern of an emotional wreck and is written in second person, so it was never going to be traditionally sound, but still I'd love to know if it's coherent, because my written work has recently been slated to a rather horrifying degree. Not that anybody needed to know that.**

**Hmm, anyhoo thanks a million for reading, and as I said, I'd appreciate reviews greatly, whether constructive or congratulatory.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:- So it's been a while, and I never actually intended for this to evolve further than one chapter, but here we all are…**

**The scene where Bones bursts, unannounced, into Booth's bathroom precedes this chapter, which means that we jump forward a full fortnight. Some reviews for chapter one suggested I write what happened during those two weeks (both in a different manner to the show, and following cannon) however, from a personal point of view I feel that (in cannon – which is the way I prefer to write) those weeks would've merely been a case of Booth laying very low, and Brennan hiding herself away in Limbo avoiding any, and all, human interaction. I hope this makes even a teeny bit of sense :)**

**Disclaimer:- Not, not, not mine! Damnit!**

"Bones?"

You call her name tentatively as you exit your bathroom, wrapped only in a towel.

There's no reply.

In your living room, you expect to find her perched at the far end of the sofa, ready to bring up the same argument all over again. Well either that, or inform you in serious tones that you really should fold the pile of laundry, which you threw on one of the armchairs just before you took your bath. She'll fix you with those piercing eyes, and you'll curse yourself for the fact that you're still not wearing any clothes.

The pile of laundry is where you left it.

She's gone.

Later, as you settle in front of the tv and tuck – not so delicately – into the pasta dish you just whipped up, you toy with the idea of calling her.

To say what?

"_Hi, Bones. Just wanted to say again that you'll be the first person I call, the next time I die_."

Or…

"_So, Bones. See anything you liked earlier?_"

No.

_Definitely_ _not_ the right time to call her.

Briefly, as you flick through the channels you wonder why the first thing your Sky box has picked up, from the last time it was switched on, is MTV. The last time you had time to watch anything, Parker was round for the night.

Your seven year old only has two modes when it comes to the tv: Nickelodeon, or the Disney Channel. MTV's presence strikes you as odd.

Taking another bite, you settle on ESPN to watch the highlights from the Flyer's game, and toss the doofer on the coffee table.

It doesn't take too long for your mind to swing round to Bones again.

Is it wrong that you aren't actually _that_ bothered by the fact that she saw you naked this evening?

Completely starkers, save for your trusty beer hat: Taking a soak in a bubble bath, complete with Parker's duck, Green Lantern issue number thirty-three, and Social Distortion playing full volume.

Honestly?

It wasn't exactly ideal, as evenings go, but it was her fault for bursting into your bathroom with no warning.

Who even _does_ that?

The fact that you proceeded to stand up naked in your bathtub only further proves that it was Bones' own fault for marching in there, claiming that you didn't give a shit about her, and expecting you to just sit there and take it.

If she didn't want to see anything, she could've turned around or closed her eyes or _something_.

Admittedly, it wasn't the most well thought out move you've made this week.

Now you're frustrated as well as being annoyed.

She definitely looked.

You decide not to dwell on the topic. There's never anything to gain by imagining your partner stripping off and joining you in the bathtub. As great as the mental image is, it only ever serves to make things awkward the following day. You'll feel guilty for jacking off to thoughts of Bones, and try to avoid her physically at all costs; and then she'll think she's said or done something wrong, because you're not hanging around her office, come lunchtime, pestering her to go to the diner with you.

Or bringing her coffee, at six am.

Or letting the two of you be alone in a room together.

Or even smiling at her.

It's not as if this exact pattern hasn't happened time and time again.

You gave up thinking you could be forgiven of _all _your sins, many moons ago.

The empty pasta bowl joins the doofer on the table, and you let out a decidedly heavy sigh, running your right hand through your hair.

It's still kind of damp from your bath.

You start thinking, all over again, about Bones bursting into your bathroom.

Well that doesn't help!

"No, no, no. Not going there! That's enough of that, Seel."

Geez, now you're talking to yourself.

Great.

You conclude that an early night is on the cards, especially seeing as you haven't slept in your own bed in over two weeks.

The Bureau are terrible at choosing a comfortable place to stay, and your back has started playing up again.

This evening's soak in a hot bath was _meant_ to help it ease up a little, and it did… just not anywhere near as much as you'd have liked.

You don't like the niggling thought that maybe you're starting to get old.

It's no wonder you struggled to apprehend that guy this morning.

Of course, you are also sporting a relatively fresh gunshot wound to the chest.

If anyone asked or anything though, you were of course merely testing out a new arresting technique.

Ahem…

You tread the distance to your bedroom by the light of the waning moon, and silently close the door behind you.

Everything looks exactly like it did two weeks ago:

Bed made;

Dressing gown draped haphazardly as ever over the chair in the far corner.

At the windowsill, you run an absent hand over the framed photo of yourself and Parker.

You sigh.

Maybe none of this is fair on him.

Maybe next time…

No.

The point is, you won't let there be a next time.

As far as you are concerned, _this time_ was damn well close enough.

You don't intend to fuck up again.

There's too much at risk, and the odds are rarely stacked in your favour.

A fresh pair of pyjama bottoms are easily located at the bottom of your chest of drawers.

You swap your jeans for them, feeling a sharp twinge of pain in your wound, as you bend forward to remove your socks.

Teeth gritted.

Yeah, you hate how this happened, but you wouldn't change the outcome of it for the world.

She's still alive, unscathed, and typically mad at you.

So what if you have a bullet-shaped hole in your chest, three shattered ribs, and are living on a cocktail of carefully selected, non-hallucinogenic painkillers?

She's still alive, and that makes it worth it.

In bed, you sigh in response to the comfort your brilliant mattress provides and tuck an arm up under the pillow that your head rests on, expecting to find the last pair of bottoms you wore to bed, so you can hurl them in the direction of your laundry hamper.

Your hand passes, uninterrupted, against cool sheets and equally cool pillowcases.

That's strange.

Perhaps you already moved them.

Before you got bundled off to take part in the grown-up version of playing dead.

Probably.

Course you did.

It's not like anyone else has been here.

**A/N:- Also, I upped the rating a notch for language and sexual reference. If anybody feels it should be upped one further to M, then please let me know, as I often find the line to be a little wavy around these things! I don't think there's anything too 'off' for a T rating though…?**

**Reviews would be most lovely, in any way, shape, or form, and feel free to suggest a direction that I could take this in as I am toying with the idea of making it into a longer fic :)**

**Many thanks for taking the time to read :)**


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